


Twirl©

by 1tamashi1 (orphan_account)



Series: Dramaturgy [2]
Category: No Fandom
Genre: no tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:00:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27066046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/1tamashi1
Relationships: No Relationships
Series: Dramaturgy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1980820
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Twirl©

https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/FdkiVTFAtwE-9xtdKYG5cqi9eFUmZB-bloLyj8LqnRxQAoxXgiTVmbYTEaxRXXionIipmTGbAR3cOzocTVasOiKtcuDt1Anmu8Dy8iqA69G7RuIqAjEaSEqz6EzUvg4mvKi7ja3Q

Double click on this and open to new tab.

When I look at this image, I notice how graceful it is. And free flowing; or free spirited. Water like. Sparkling with gracefulness and beaming with purity. This water can get heavy though. The feeling of drowning. Deep deep in the water. The Mariana Trench of our lives. Too heavy for us to handle. We’re sucked into the whirlpool of our mistakes. Spun around like some clothing being rung and dried after washing your car. A dry dam of the eye. Where all lies are stored. The soul. Mistakes are made. But this picture is too graceful. Too perfect. Now twirls and ballet isn’t always this graceful. We trip, stumble, and fall. Trying to follow this impossible routine. The codes of order enforced and slammed upon your shoulders. The feelings of liquidation and the scent of lemon. Sour lemonade. You dance under the summer sun. Cold sweat leaking out of your pores. You fall and slip from exhaustion. The adults laugh. Every day. You’re caught under the loop of perfection. Working yourself to feebleness. Nights of hunger gone. Your legs feel chilled under the sun. You drip with cold sweat. Your skin is melting away- along with your thoughts. Your actions are run by the adults. Playing with you like a puppet. You swing your head over as your soul is taken. You try to fight it but all of it is swept away. The waves recede- back and forth. As all your memories and your rights are whipped away. You're blown off your feet as you stand there drooping down. Order being forced upon you. You're in the adults' grip. You wriggle free! For at least a second and try to run through the door. But the door is simply a fantasy- a shadow- a hand puppet. Order grabs you by the pipe and tightens the screw- strong arm’s and tightens the screws. You kick, shove, and scream. They hold you down and put the laughing gas on you. Your eyes droop down- you’re being blitzed- drugged. Demode piquancy is rushing through your eyelids like a rainbow waterfall. “Roy G. Biv Cascades has left the station.” Huhuhuh. You laugh eyes woozy. You feel cozy. You’re sooo immature-like you're drunk. “Pardon, mais pouvons-nous décoller votre peau?’ They look at you with sharp smiles- like predators- sharks-sadists. “Surre…” you say drunkenly. They increase the gas, and you hallucinate more. You see moving shadows, devilish grins, a huge pair of sharp scissors, knives, eyeballs, and skin. Lynched people- old, young; babies, children, mothers, fathers. They all scream help! It’s overbearing. You try to calm down, but you feel as if someone- hands all over you- pinching then pulling and finally ripping- into strips- like bacon. The sizzling screams. Eccchhhzzzzz- smoke rises. “It burns! It burns!” “Le paresseux a été mis à l'intérieur du four, et maintenant le cochon est sorti.”m They chant- the lynched beings, knives, bed, and the oven shake and vibrate. It’s overwhelmingly strong. After they tear your skin off. Grilling it under the LED lights. They then put something cold upon your skin and then start drilling. The drill goes down deep with your body. Leaving blood spit out of the hole. Like a waterfall so beautiful. After they’re done drilling, they carry you and put you9 inside of a chamber. They close the door tightly so you can’t escape and then the fumes roll in. You feel calm at first but then as it hits your lungs you scream and scoot to try to move- the screw that’s on your fesse latches onto one of the holes within the ground. You’re unaware of this- try your best to scoot to freedom and you feel a sharp pain around your lower area- bout i suppose. You pull and the blood splurges out. “AAAGGGHHH” Then the air fills your lungs, and you feel like you're being poured out and emptied. Eyes roll back like a zombie and you’re gowsjs... (brain dead- all you know is to follow the adult’s directions). You’re put back on the stage- screws hooked unto the string of the spider- the web. A spool of thread. Its babies stick onto the metal and suck the life from you. Brain dead. No soul, no freedom, or room for your opinion. You’re living someone else’s life. Yes, you have your own body- wait you don’t. Your self-esteem changes along with the way they look at people. It molds till you can’t take it anymore. You’re constantly being plucked from your petals. The clay is constantly being touched and taken out over and over and over again till it loses color. The paint fades away. Carrying the title of a has been- forever controlled and will forever hold no control.


End file.
